Rough Paths
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: Beginning approximately 3015 years post-manga, Nicholas Wolfwood Saverem (eldest son of Vash "the Stampede" Saverem) has a serious problem: her name is Chronica. As it so happens, Chronica also has a serious problem... and his name, coincidentally, is Nicholas. (Mostly stand-alone, or else VQL # 9.5.)
1. Confusion

_Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_Dedicated to JasperK, whose inquiries sparked the idea for this tale._

_Approximately 3015 years after the manga ends..._

**NOTE**: _contains minor spoilers if you know who Chronica is, bigger spoilers if you don't._

...

...

**Confusion**

Chronica opened another box, pulled a picture off the wall, and threw it into the newly-opened container. She began to reach for another picture, but the tears she'd been fighting to suppress would wait no longer.

She flopped down onto her couch, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.

This had been a mistake. She should have known that from the beginning, fifteen years ago. She cursed herself for daring to hope - that's what made it hurt so much. At least she still had her job; she could go to another town and keep busy there.

Maybe she'd request reassignment to Seeds village. That's where all the young male plants were growing up. Maybe one of them could get used to her...

What was that? A knock on the door? Who would come here, now, today?

She dabbed at her eyes with a cloth and peered through the peephole. Alex? She was so surprised that she automatically opened the door.

"Hello," he said gently, and walked past her into the room.

She closed the door, turned, and leaned against it. Why was his brother here?

He stood in the middle of the chaos-filled room, facing her. "Are you ok?" he asked. His expression was uncommonly gentle.

"Why shouldn't I be ok?" she countered warily.

"Because, as much as I love my brother," Alex said, "sometimes he can do really dumb things. Unless I'm very much mistaken, he did something especially dumb an hour or so ago. Am I right? Or is everything still perfectly fine between you two?"

Chronica tried to hold her chin still, but it _would_ quiver. "I'm fine," she lied.

"Yes, I can see that," Alex said softly. He sat down in a chair near her couch. "If you don't want to talk about it, I will."

"What's to talk about?" she said.

"Nicholas behaving like an idiot," he said, and then he grinned a lopsided grin at her.

The mention of his name made her knees feel a little weak. She attempted to retain some composure, and walked across the room to the couch. She sat down, sighing, and waited to see what Alex had to say.

"Nicholas sees Papa still mourning Mama," Alex said, while looking out the window at nothing in particular. "Sometimes it makes him feel guilty. He doesn't want to be disrespectful of his own wife's memory by replacing her too quickly. However, that's not his only worry."

Alex glanced at her, as if to see if she was listening. Since she was, he continued. "He's also shy about depending on anyone else. That's always made him uncomfortable, even when that 'someone else' was me, his own twin brother."

Chronica frowned thoughtfully. What did this have to do with her?

"Do you begin to understand?" Alex asked. "He's getting used to having you around, and that makes him nervous. He's uncomfortable about letting himself depend on you. So he's done something very foolish. He's tried to chase you away."

She blinked, trying to absorb this. It wasn't something that she would have guessed.

"I don't know what he said," Alex continued, "but I can pretty nearly guarantee you that most of it was nonsense. He was trying to push you away, to see if you'd go."

Alex shrugged and looked out the window again. "I can't guarantee that if you stay, he won't do anything this idiotic again. However, I am pretty sure he'll be glad to see you haven't gone away."

Chronica sat there, stunned, unsure of what to think or feel. She'd been so isolated, a lone independent plant among humans, for so long. She didn't really know what to expect in a relationship. She only knew that she was weary of being alone. Were all relationships this complicated?

"Are you saying I picked the wrong brother?" Chronica asked, honestly curious.

"Ah," Alex said, his fair complexion turning rosy, "I wouldn't say that. The interest in seeking a life-mate has not yet awakened in me. Papa says not to worry; in time that will take care of itself. I'm just not there yet, and I have no way of knowing when I will be."

Chronica nodded. That matched what she detected in his emotional echoes.

"You're too much like your father," she said, barely above a whisper. "You wouldn't want someone like me, even if you were looking."

Alex looked puzzled. "I'm not a lawman, like he and Nicholas," he said.

Chronica almost smiled. "It's difficult to separate wild rumors from fact," she said. "Before the Earth forces came here in a failed attempt to rescue the people stranded on this forsaken planet, your father was a wanted outlaw."

Alex looked startled, which did make her smile.

"Setting aside situations that seem likely to have been your uncle Knives' doing, or else imposters," she continued, "it appears that Vash was a vigilante. He put his life on the line, regularly, to protect people from being hurt or killed. He did that for the same reason you learned healing: compassion for other people."

Alex's fading blush returned in full force. "I hadn't thought of it that way," he said.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," she said. "When I learned that your father was very different from his brother Knives, I got curious and started digging. What I just told you is a summary of what I found."

Alex looked down, his expression thoughtful.

"Some one like you, or your father, wouldn't want someone as blunt, practical, and unromantic as me," she said. "You'd want someone more like your mother, who's at least as tenderhearted as you are. That's why I'd thought maybe someone with more strongly pragmatic inclinations, like..." Her rebellious chin was beginning to quiver again, so she closed her mouth and tried to get it under control. She couldn't bring herself to say his name without wanting to cry.

"You may not have been mistaken, at least not about Nicholas," he said. "He may not realize or admit it yet, but he grows fidgety when you're not around. He keeps looking every direction, as if searching for something or someone. That only stops when you appear."

"He seldom seems to welcome me," she said.

Alex grinned. "Of course not," he said. "That would come too close to admitting how softhearted he really is, under his cool exterior."

Chronica could understand that, better than she cared to admit to anyone else. She looked at the half-packed boxes scattered around the room.

"Please," Alex said, "don't go if the only reason is that you and Nicholas had an argument. Go or stay because it's what you want to do."

"Why are you telling me this?" Chronica asked.

"Because Nicholas is too shy to say it himself," Alex replied. "And because I love my brother, even when he is acting like an idiot."

He extended his hand. She stood and shook it.

"I hope I've helped, and not done harm," he said gently.

"I think so," she said. "I have some things to think about."

He nodded. "I'll leave you to that, then."

She opened the door for him, waved a farewell, and then closed the door. She leaned against the door, then turned around and looked at the confusion in the room.

"Oh, Nicholas," she whispered, and then began crying again.

...

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...

**Author's Note:**_Hopefully, this story should be able to stand alone. However, it is also a companion tale to the VQL series, and would fall partway between "Crooked Leaves" and its sequel, "Those Who Overcome." _

_(Just in case anyone happens to be interested in reading any more of what I imagine might follow the manga's end.) _;-)

_The VQL series (in chronological order):__ "Vash's Quiet Life"__ (1__st__),__ "Vash's Long Road to Home" __(2__nd__),__ "Rem Returns" __(3__rd__),__ "Vash Vindicated" __(4__th__) __"Shared Memories" __(4.5),__ "Disquieting Days" __(5th),__ "Loss" __(6__th__), __"Humans and Plants"__ (7__th__) and __"Journeys and Quiet Times" __(8__th__), and __"Crooked Leaves."__ I hope you will enjoy all of them that you choose to read._

_There's also an associated "free verse" poem titled__ "Too Late," __and a semi-associated collection of shorter stories,__ "Search for a Stampede."_

_There are also two companion tales to this series written by the highly talented _"JasperK": "Stasis" _and_ "With This Ring." _Please give them a read, if you haven't already done so. Thanks!_ :)


	2. Frustration

_Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_Approximately 3015 years after the manga ends..._

...

...

**Frustration**

Nicholas Wolfwood Saverem stomped into his empty house, and slammed the door. The violence of his movements caused most of his pale blonde hair to come loose from the tie at his nape, so he paused to fix that.

That woman was so frustrating! He'd finally told her off. And he'd done it thoroughly. She would likely request a transfer out of town. Good riddance, as far as he was concerned. It would be perfectly fine with him if he never saw her again. Really, it would!

Who did she think she was, trying to replace his dead wife? That anyone would presume to come to the town where he lived, expecting him to cure her loneliness, well, it just made him want to throw something!

He needed to get this frustration out of his system before he did something he'd regret. He stormed out of the house and walked briskly toward the light-gun arena. Thankfully, December was a large enough town to have one of those.

Unfortunately, when he arrived, he learned that the light-gun arena was booked up. Other deputies were using some of the rooms to stay in practice. Children with any fascination with law enforcement, or firearms, were using the other rooms. There would not be a room free this week, let alone this evening.

He stormed out of there and went to the gym. A good workout with a punching bag should do the trick nicely. But the bags were all claimed for another hour.

Grumbling under his breath, Nicholas decided to go to a saloon to wait. With the accelerated metabolism of a plant, he might not be able to get truly drunk. However, he might achieve a bit of a buzz that would help him relax. At least, his human friends who frequented saloons claimed that such a thing was possible. He might as well find out.

He took a stool at the bar, and ordered a glass of his father's favorite brand of whiskey. He normally wasn't much into booze, so he thought he'd try what his father occasionally sipped. He figured it was unlikely to be any worse than anything else.

He curtly thanked and paid the barkeep. Then he took a drink. The liquid felt like it burned, both on his tongue and down his throat. He couldn't tell what flavor it had, only that it burned. Ugh.

He managed to get it down, and waited. He felt mildly dizzy, but that was all. It didn't help anything. Damn!

He looked around the bar, and saw several couples talking quietly over their drinks or snacks. Some were laughing, others tenderly or passionately kissing, and others merely looking at each other in ways that made his insides twist.

His wife was dead. That part of his life was gone, forever. There was no way to get her back, or to have that sort of joy again.

He stood up and left the bar.

Walking, that might help. A long enough walk should help distract him from some of his frustrations. Hopefully the gym would help with the rest, when a punching-bag became available for a workout.

He passed stores, where couples were window-shopping. He passed cafés where couples were eating. It seemed as if everywhere he looked, the people were paired off and enjoying each other's company.

Well, he was better off alone. That woman was not good company. She wasn't. Really. He didn't miss her. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

He kept walking, right past the edge of town. He turned, to walk around the outside of the town as a way to work out some frustrations until the hour was used up and he could go to the gym.

He walked for perhaps half an ile, when he saw a corral with a few Thomases in it. He paused. The beasts could be entertaining, at times. A distraction might be good for him. He propped his elbows on the top rail, and looked. Two of the Thomases appeared to be having a fight. He wondered if he ought to help out the owner and ... oh, wait. That wasn't a fight... he turned away, chagrinned.

Even the Thomases were pairing off!

He stomped away, continuing his circuit of the city.

The hour finally passed, and he turned his steps toward the gym. He checked at the desk. Thankfully, there was a bag he could punch. So he laid aside surplus outer clothing, like his vest and gun belt. Then he put on the protective gloves, and began whaling away at the inoffensive bag.

"I... do... not... like... meddlers!" he gasped as he punched. "I'm... glad... she's... gone!" he added for good measure. As it grew later, other patrons of the gym wandered off toward their homes. Some mentioned family who would miss them if they stayed out late.

His great-great-great granddaughter was living with her cousins, and not currently here for a visit. So there was no one for Nicholas to go home to. He kept pounding the bag until he was so exhausted that he could barely stand. Finally, he set aside the gloves and buckled on his gun belt again. He picked up his vest, paid the fee for renting the bag, and left the gym.

He walked home more slowly than he'd left. Though he wasn't trying to pry, he sometimes noticed families or couples hugging or kissing each other goodnight through uncurtained windows.

He hadn't been ready to lose his wife. That ache, fifteen years old, had not gone away. It was less intense than at first, but it still hurt.

He hadn't been ready to lose all but one of his children, grandchildren, etc. either. He should have been the one to kill their murderer... he shouldn't have let that woman do it.

Damn! Why did every thought seem to lead back to her?

He scrubbed himself with a fury, untied his hair, threw on his pajamas, turned out the lights, and flung himself onto his bed. There would be work in the morning; it wasn't a day off. He'd need to sleep, at least a little.

Some instinct warned him that it was likely to be a long night.

That instinct proved correct.

He tossed and turned on the double-wide bed, watched the various moons move through the night sky on the other side of his window, and wrestled with his blankets some more. It was a cool enough night that he wanted some blankets, but simultaneously warm enough that he didn't want them all. He couldn't seem to get comfortable.

And his head kept trying to think of _her_, the bane of his existence.

He tried to think of his childhood instead, but that made him remember his mother who might never wake again. He tried to think of his family, but they were all dead. He tried thinking of his siblings, but so many of them were now dead...

Thinking of Naomi or Rem just reminded him how they were recently married to adopted brothers who were not blood kin. He was glad for them, that they had found what he had lost. He had loved his wife and children, while he had them. He hoped they knew that.

He curled up into a near-fetal position, buried his face into his pillow, and wept.

...

The suns blazed in through his window, as if they wished to burn through his eyelids and blind him. He turned away from the window with a groan. He would have liked to sleep longer, but it wasn't a day off.

His head was pounding. Was that from lack of sleep, or from the whiskey he drank last night, or both?

Either way, he needed to get up. It didn't matter how tired he was. There was work to be done, and he needed to do it.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and flung his feet onto the floor. Since his great-great-great granddaughter wasn't visiting, he need not worry about noise to the rooms downstairs. Nobody would be disturbed if his feet hit the floor hard enough to make a thump.

He pushed himself off the bed, grabbed some clean clothes, and wandered into the bathroom. He cleaned up and got himself dressed and shaved. He wasn't entirely pleased with his reflection, but he was presentable enough to pass inspection at the sheriff's office. He shrugged and left the room.

When he arrived at the kitchen downstairs, he realized he'd not done the dishes after breakfast yesterday. Oh well. They could wait a bit longer without further harm.

He scrambled a Thomas egg for breakfast, and added a strip of seasoned Thomas meat that was almost, but not quite, bacon. With that in his moderately unsettled stomach, he hoped to last until lunch time.

If headaches and upset stomachs were the usual result of drinking, he wondered what anybody saw in it. There had to be better ways to enjoy an evening than that.

He wandered into the office, still feeling uncommonly weary.

His eyes slipped sideways, entirely without intent or consent of his will, to focus on her desk. She wasn't there.

Instead of the relief he had expected to feel, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't as bad as losing his family, but it felt more like a loss than a relief.

So, his tirade had worked. She was gone.

He turned wearily to his own desk and flung himself into the chair. He looked at the papers on the desk. The words on them didn't seem to make any sense.

"Gone," the word seemed to echo hollowly inside his head. It made the emptiness and loneliness hurt worse.

His eyes turned toward her desk again. This time he noticed a mug of coffee there, still steaming. He blinked, and looked more carefully. Had she been replaced so quickly? No, the design on the mug was familiar. It was her mug, a favorite one that she'd brought with her. She would not leave that mug behind.

He heard a door open in the hallway, then standard-issue shoe heels on the floor. He glanced to the side, very briefly.

She'd only been in the restroom. She wasn't gone.

He picked up the first of a stack of papers, carefully looking only at the page. He picked up a pen. He began reading the page, to see what it needed. He began writing.

His eyes again strayed to her desk. He saw her taking a sip of her coffee. She began to turn toward him, and he looked again at his papers. He filled in another blank.

His head still pounded, but things were beginning to make sense again.

He should apologize. He knew that. He didn't have the words yet, but he would find them.

At least, since she was still in town, he would have the opportunity.


	3. Hot Day

_Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_Approximately 3020 years after the manga ends ... and approximately five years after Nick and Chronica had their first serious argument..._

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**Hot Day**

Chronica walked home from work on what had to be the hottest day in the last three years. For all its faults, at least Earth only had one sun! She wasn't sure if she'd ever fully acclimatize to this double-baking, especially during the summer.

There was nothing she could do about the weather. She couldn't even change into less restrictive clothing until she got home. So she tried to think of something else as she walked.

Males.

Now there was a subject that was both endlessly fascinating and endlessly frustrating. They could be anything from hideous to handsome... and, come to think of it, at least one had been both at the same time.

Millions Knives. That bastard was handsome outside, but his inner thoughts and behavior had been downright hideous. Still, she had to admit she'd run the security tapes of his final day more often than she'd strictly needed to, simply to enjoy the view.*

Stranger still, she'd seen most of his brother's body and liked that view better. In fact, she liked that view a _lot_ better. She kept catching herself comparing every other male she saw to him. Wait a minute... when did Vash's body become her concept of the ideal in masculine aesthetic appeal?

His figure was indeed fine, she thought. He was only very slightly leaner than Knives. Vash's scars should have made him hideous, but somehow knowing why they existed, because of his idealistic effort to avoid killing, made the sight of them bearable. They remained an unsightly blemish, though. The idea of Vash's body without scars made her heart beat slightly faster. That's how Nick looked without his shirt, at least. Her heartbeat increased slightly more at that thought.

She didn't recall being particularly impressed with Vash's body when she made him strip to his underpants during the weapons search, back when she'd caught him and had been planning to collect the bounty on him.** She recalled being only mildly intrigued when she'd later provoked his wife to describe his masculine anatomy as "ample." ***

In the aftermath of the massacre 20 years ago, **** when he'd been sitting huddled and naked in a gilded cage, she recalled enjoying the view even though he was hugging his legs tightly against his chest and groin, keeping those areas hidden from view. His daughter had thoughtfully provided him with makeshift clothing, so he had a shimmering golden fabric wrapped around him when he finally stood.

A friendly night breeze had blown it away from his body as they left that area, but the moonlight had been too dim to get a good view. The silhouette had supported Shyla's claim, but before she could get a better look at Vash's nether regions, Nicholas had pushed between them and prevented her from further attempts to see anything.

There was no harm in looking, for pity's sake! She'd only been curious. Even then, she'd known she would never have any significant place in Vash's life. That's why she'd already begun considering his sons.

Even at that time, she'd enjoyed seeing Nick bared to the waist. She'd liked the way his muscles moved smoothly underneath his unblemished and nearly-translucent skin. She'd also seen that, at least above the waist, Nick's build matched his father's exactly. It made her want to see more. That inclination had made it sorely tempting to wait longer before shooting Kamila; but she'd not wished him to suffer needlessly, either.

Nicholas and Alex: what an intriguing pair. They both had that long, lean shape that was increasingly catching her attention. Alex had inherited a face and hair much like his father's, but his eyes were his mother's. Nick seemed to have his own face, framed by paler hair, but his eyes - both in shape and in color - were nearly identical to his father's.

Alex was a doctor, who only practiced self-defense for emergency back-up purposes. Nick moved more like his father. This wasn't too surprising, since Nick was a deputy marshal, and skill with weapons and combat was more needful to his chosen profession. That catlike grace of his had to be part of his appeal.

She knew she couldn't have Vash. If she'd ever doubted that, the fact that he still wore his wedding ring twenty years after believing his wife had died would make it plain. Nick, on the other hand, had buried his wedding ring with his wife's body.

Vash missed his wife. Nicholas missed his wife, too, but he also missed being married. The difference was subtle, yet significant. With Nick, she might have a chance.

That was the reason she'd requested a transfer from Octovarn to December, after the defeat of the crooked leaf cultists. That was also the reason she'd propositioned Nick a few months after moving here.

His response still puzzled her.

She reached her house, went in, closed and locked the door behind her, and began peeling off her sweat-drenched clothing. She reached her bathroom, after shedding the last garment, and considered her reflection.

There was nothing wrong with her figure. If she had any doubts about that, the reaction of human males when she wore tailored or form-fitting clothing would reassure her. She'd been wearing something tailored when she approached Nick.

...and he'd said he needed to think about it.

What was to think about?

Nick had already been married and had fathered several children. These things suggested that his instincts were probably functioning full-strength. He knew all about bedroom activities, and could probably teach her whatever she didn't already know without unnecessary awkwardness. Humans did that sort of thing all the time, so surely it couldn't be any big deal.

She shook herself, and turned away from the mirror. It still made her uncomfortable, remembering the four human boys who'd promised to teach her how to be human... back then, she'd admired humans more than some of them deserved. Those four were definitely on the list of the ones who didn't deserve such admiration.

That had been a thoroughly unpleasant experience, and she'd not allowed any human to get that close to her since. Yet she'd seen human females that seemed to enjoy masculine attention, even when that attention had included the very activity she'd found so unpleasant.

Then a day had come when she'd seen Vash and his wife together. They had something she lacked, and it included what appeared to be a thoroughly mutual enjoyment of physical interaction. She'd jokingly inquired if Vash took on lovers, which had deeply distressed his bashful wife... and had not exactly pleased Vash himself, when he learned about it, either.

Well, darn it, it _had_ been worth a try. She could use a pleasant experience to help drive off the nightmares. She still occasionally had nightmares about those unpleasant experiences. She left the bathroom and flung herself onto her bed, allowing the air to cool her skin.

Nick had "needed to think about it" when she asked him. She supposed she should take it as a good sign that he hadn't turned her down cold, as his father had done.

He'd been unusually quiet and thoughtful for a few days, and then he'd disappeared.

When he returned, he'd offered a counter-suggestion: perhaps they should spend some time together. They could go some places, like dinner out, or taking walks, or working out, or whatever seemed like a good idea at the time. While doing that, they could see if they enjoyed each others' company. It would help them both to decide what else they might want to do.

She'd asked him flat out what knowing each other had to do with sharing a bed. He said it had everything to do with it, because he'd only share a bed if he was married to the woman who slept on the other side of it.

Twenty years later, they were _still_ having dinner twice a week with some other activity on a third evening. To be fair, he _had_ also invited her to attend church with him. However, that simply didn't interest her.

Today was one of the four each week when she wouldn't normally see Nick in the evening. He'd had a point, she realized. The four evenings spent without him were boring by comparison. For all his practicality, he could be a pleasant companion. He mostly talked of work, but sometimes he would talk of his family, past and present. She had to reach back to her friendship with Domina to come close to matching his stories or understanding how he felt.

His wit was more gentle, where hers tended to be sarcastic. He could be surprisingly perceptive at times, and he was always both drawn toward children and exceptionally gentle with them. He also tended to see potential in people, and give out second chances. Chronica expected that was partly his father's influence, but it set well on him. Nick was more stern than Vash, and less likely to cry. Yet many times, when he thought no one was looking, she saw the pain of loneliness in Nick's eyes.

She realized she was starting to miss him, specifically, on the evenings they spent apart. Oh, sometimes she'd go down to the tavern so she wasn't entirely alone, but she'd spent so many years as a plant alone among humans that there wasn't any novelty to an evening spent like that. It didn't help.

This evening was one when Nick usually worked out at the gym down the street. Perhaps she should go work out there, too.

Suddenly she sat up as an idea occurred to her. She could suggest they work out together twice a week, and which ever one of them scored the most points against the other would buy the next dinner. That might get her two more evenings of his company... or at least one, if he chose to discard the random activity night in exchange for one of the workout-contest nights. If nothing else, it might make for the entire evening spent together, on "dinner out" nights.

She stood and rummaged through her drawers until she found underpants, a snug-fitting pair of jeans, and a sleeveless top that looked filmier than it was and tended to cling when she sweated. She glanced at the drawer where her bras were kept, and turned away from it grinning mischievously. Might as well remind Nick of what he could have, if he'd just loosen up a bit more.

She pulled on her selected garments, and added a sturdy pair of sandals. She'd go to where he was, do enough exercise to work up a sweat, and then suggest the twice weekly contest-workout to determine who bought dinner. They could do one contest at her house, and the other at his, every week. That way if things started getting intense, they'd already be alone.

Yes, that should do _very_ nicely, she thought to herself. She began walking toward the gym where he was likely to be punching a bag until his body was slick with sweat. He might even have his shirt off, in this heat...

Her pace quickened as she moved down the street.

If she and Nick ever did marry, she was unlikely to grow tired of looking at him!

...

...

...

...

* See "Loss" chapter 3

** See "Search for a Stampede" chapter 7

*** See "Journeys and Quiet Times" chapter 6

**** See "Crooked Leaves" chapter 7


	4. Cooler Evening

_Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_Approximately 3020 years after the manga ends ... and approximately five years after Nicholas and Chronica had their first serious argument..._

...

...

**Cooler Evening**

Women. They had to be the most frustrating and fascinating creatures on the face of this planet. In fact, they might possibly be the most perplexing beings in the entire universe.

Nicholas punched the bag again and again.

He needed to stay in shape anyhow, he reasoned. Nobody was hurt by it if he pounded out his frustrations on the bag. Nobody had to know what he was thinking as he wrestled with his thoughts, feelings and frustrations, and worked them out of his body this way.

He got along reasonably well with most females he encountered. He loved his great-great-great granddaughter. She seemed to reciprocate, which further endeared her to him.

He had loved his wife very deeply. Her slightly different perspective on so many things had helped to expand his thinking. She'd been good for him, and he hoped he had also been good for her. He still felt as if he'd lost the best part of himself on the day she died, twenty years ago. He still existed, but he didn't know if he would ever feel completely alive again.

He respected, loved and trusted his sisters, even on those unusual situations when he disagreed with them. He almost adored his mother, and it still hurt that she was as good as dead. He still hoped and prayed that was reversible, but he feared it might not be.

He was on friendly terms with most of his co-workers, regardless of their gender. The different perspectives of the women could be intriguing, or frustrating, by turns. Sometimes they helped him stay in balance, as his wife had, though to a lesser degree.

And then there was Chronica.

Sometimes Chronica seemed like an overgrown child. Circumstances had compelled her to make her way alone in the universe. She'd never been surrounded by a loving family, as he had. Except for Domina, it seemed she'd mostly been a loner. Small wonder she was somewhat socially awkward, all things considered.

He should make allowances. He knew that, but sometimes when her bluntness approached crassness, he had difficulty concealing how shocked he was that she'd never learned to soften such thoughts or remarks. She obviously had enough intelligence to make those connections. Had it never occurred to her to observe ordinary human social interactions, and learn from them?

When she'd first asked him for what could politely be called a romantic relationship, he'd been shocked. After thinking it over, and discussing it with his father and one sister, he had instead offered to date her platonically. She had agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

Sometimes it felt more like a babysitting job than like a friendship between adults, thanks to her social ineptitude and extreme loneliness. She was such a strange blend of ignorance in ordinary matters and very specific knowledge about tactics, plants gone bad, science, technology, etc. He sometimes wondered if that had been a barrier to her forming friendships with ordinary humans.

And then there was the problem that whatever woman had influenced her casual wardrobe was a bit beyond shameless. Chronica thought it was funny when all the ordinary human males stared at her slack-jawed. He was considerably less affected, thanks to plants needing a stronger emotional component to set off those reactions. He still considered her more of a co-worker than a friend. If she weren't so terribly lonely, he'd have sent her away years ago.

Well, he _had_ tried to send her away with harsh words five years ago. Thankfully, it hadn't worked... he'd have regretted it for most of his life, if they'd parted on those terms. She'd accepted his awkward apology, and they'd mostly continued as if the argument had never happened.

He sighed and punched the bag a few more times. He felt sweat run down inside his shirt, making the cloth stick to him and prevent any air circulation. So he took off his shirt and tossed it aside. The gym was sweltering enough without wearing unnecessary clothing in this heat. Thankfully, he was male. Nobody minded if a guy took his shirt off, especially when it was hot and he was exercising.

The weather report expected that the temperatures should drop as evening came on. He was impatient for that to happen, since today had been hotter than most, even for summer.

He heard and felt it, more than he saw it; the gym employees began opening windows. The evening air had finally begun to cool, if only slightly. It wasn't enough to truly bring relief yet, though. He glanced around, stretching his shoulders, preparing for another assault on the bag.

Drat. He hadn't paid enough attention to the group sharing the gym with him. There was at least one female who chanced to be watching as he'd removed his shirt, and she was still staring at him. He deliberately turned his back and focused on the punching bag.

He began aiming jabs, roundhouses, uppercuts, and the occasional kick at the inoffensive bag. Thankfully, it was sturdy enough to take his abuse without being damaged by it.

What motivated Chronica? Was it lust?

No, he knew her better than that. He could see her face, and sample her emotional echoes, every time she was around him. She had curiosity and loneliness, in spades. There had never been desire. Her instincts had no more awakened than Alex's had.

However, she'd suffered a bad experience, which kept the subject on her mind. He knew that because she'd told him, after making a comment based on the assumption that he already knew what she was talking about. She'd been surprised that the only person she'd ever told, his mother, had never told anyone else.

"Mama might have told Papa," Nicholas remembered telling Chronica, when the subject came up last week. "They had very few secrets from each other, if any at all. But he'd never say a word about it to anyone else, just as she wouldn't."

Chronica had expressed a hope that his mother would recover, and then she'd sat silently for a time. When she finally began speaking again, she hung her head and spoke in a monotone. She told him how four teen-aged human boys had tricked her into agreeing to cooperate while they raped her. Those weren't the words she used, but that's what _he_ would call the situation she'd described.

He kicked the bag as savagely as those boys had used Chronica. It rammed into the wall with a louder-than-average thud, and he had to catch it quickly before it swung back and struck him in the groin.

Those motherless... it still angered him that anyone would treat a naïve young girl the way those four had treated her. Even her emotionless retelling made it plain to him that they'd been deliberately and needlessly brutal. And they'd done those things to a plant, who'd have to suffer from the results of their crime for far longer than any ordinary human would. In some ways, that made it worse.

Chronica wanted something better than what she'd already experienced, if there was anything better to be had. He couldn't blame her for that.

But why in the world was she looking for _him_ to provide that better experience?

He punched the bag a few more times, as hard as he could. He wasn't really angry with Chronica, not about that. It was her attackers, the ones who messed her up, who he really wanted to hit. Even though they were long dead, he still wanted to reach back into time and hit them so hard that their grandchildren would be born dizzy. No, he wanted to hit them so hard they couldn't have children - let alone _grand_children.

He knew that Chronica would be offended if she ever detected the way he pitied her, so he was very careful to keep that sentiment buried deep within himself. She liked to think of herself as strong and independent. She would perceive his pity as an insult.

She needed someone; that much was plain. He just didn't know if he was cut out to be that someone.

He'd tried, repeatedly, to invite her to church. His faith was a deeply personal thing to him, so he was always awkward in his efforts to discuss it with people who didn't at least respect it. He believed she might find some of what she needed there, if she'd only give it a try. So far, she'd been unwilling to consider attending church.

He also suspected she mistakenly thought that he only attended church for social reasons. He'd let the subject drop, aside from re-inviting her every third year or so. He didn't feel like enduring any variation on the conversation he imagined would follow when she first discovered he was serious about church, if she'd not been attending at least a little before that.

His faith wasn't the only thing he was serious about. He was also serious about getting married before being physically intimate with her. He was serious about not marrying outside the faith. The way things were going, he and Chronica might remain "just good friends" for centuries, or even forever.

He'd been pelting the bag pretty constantly, and he was beginning to grow tired. Good, perhaps that would help him to sleep tonight, instead of lying awake aching for his dead wife. He paused to rest his forehead against the bag, and check his breathing, to see if he wanted to continue or not.

The open windows were finally beginning to help. The air was moving, and it was slowly beginning to cool down toward a tolerable temperature. Thank goodness.

Suddenly, he caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar scent.

Oh no, not here... not tonight. _Please_ God...

He risked a glance in the direction the errant whiff of air was coming from, and felt his shoulders droop slightly. Sure enough, there was Chronica busily pelting away at the third punching bag away from the one he'd rented for the whole evening.

As usual, she wasn't dressed to blend in... And the local human males were staring.

Was that a mild revenge, on her part, toward males because others had hurt her? He hadn't considered that possibility before. Perhaps he should have. But then, he'd not known she had any cause for revenge until last week.

Chronica obviously had zero interest in giving any of them what their eyes hungered for. He'd seen her do this several times before. She'd flaunt just enough of her body to get them interested, and then walk off without a second glance. She never flirted. She only dressed provocatively, and heaven help anybody who tried to accept the implied invitation!

She didn't radiate the same extreme coldness toward him, or toward his father or brothers, that she did toward human males. If his current hypothesis was accurate, that could explain several things.

Chronica needed someone to love her, someone male. She didn't trust human males - with good reason.

He knew that not all human males were like the ones who'd hurt her. He got the impression she knew that also, but she still didn't trust them as she had before that incident. For her, a human male was out of the question.

So the question he needed to answer was if she'd chosen the correct masculine plant. Was this something he could do? Was it something he wanted to do?

He didn't know the answer.

He straightened up and started pelting his assigned punching bag again.


	5. Lessons

_Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_Approximately 3021 years after the manga ends ... and nearly six years after Nicholas and Chronica had their first serious argument..._

...

**Lessons**

Chronica tried not to squirm in her seat. She hadn't expected a need to do this during their annual visit to Seeds village, too. She'd thought it was something they only did at home.

But then, she had never really paid attention to the Sunday morning activities of the Saverem family during prior visits. And, to be fair, most prior visits hadn't fallen close enough to a Sunday for that day to be included.

They always gathered at Seeds village on the anniversary of the massacre, to mourn and remember those slain by the crooked leaf cultists. Chronica came to Seeds village with them, since she also had friends buried here that had died in that massacre. There was the added attraction of Nick Saverem's presence, too.

Instead of looking at the preacher, she looked down past the Bible in her lap to consider the soft rust-colored fabric folds of her dress. She found her thoughts drifting backward, and remembering how she'd started attending church with Nick, Alex, Deborah and Lydia half a year ago.

...

It had started on that evening when she'd invented the idea of two workout duels per week, to decide who would buy dinner after the workout. Nicholas tipped his head to one side, his brows drawing together slightly as he stared past her with unfocused eyes. Then one eyebrow had risen, and his eyes had refocused.

"That sounds reasonable," Nick said. "However, let's revise that to half of those contests each month being in the light gun arena. It would have the additional advantages of someone objective keeping track of the points on those evenings, and it will also be good practice for both of us to help keep our weapons skills sharp. We can alternate weeks of who hosts the other weekly contest at their home."

"Sure," she agreed quickly, before he changed his mind. She felt a little triumphant; for this meant that their "dinner" evenings would be longer, perhaps lasting well into the night. She smiled.

"It will also give me something to do," he admitted. "Deborah and Lydia should arrive Saturday night. After that, Alex may be too busy to spend as many evenings with me as he does now. I expect I'll see them at church on Sunday morning, too."

"Deborah and Lydia?" Chronica asked. Those sounded like feminine names. After twenty-one years of dating Nicholas, she didn't like the idea of other females being around him when she wasn't. She did _not_ want to start over with someone else. These Saverem men were so darn shy that it took _forever_ to get anywhere with one!

"They're two of the plant children we rescued from the crooked leaves," he said. "Papa, Rem, Naomi, Jared and Frank have been raising them. They've grown up enough to choose a profession."

"Since you speak of Alex being busy," she said slowly, "I'm guessing that those two chose healing?"

"Yes," he said. "Naomi's given them basic training, but there were enough among them who wanted to learn healing that Papa felt it best to divide them among those of us who already know how to heal. So Lydia and Deborah are coming to be Alex's apprentices. I'm a little disappointed that Angelina was assigned elsewhere, but I suppose Papa and Naomi had good reasons for that. Anyhow, Alex will continue their training in both standard human medicine and also plant healing."

Two young plant girls, following Alex around; that didn't bother her. However, the idea that they would make a pair with the twin brothers, whenever Nick joined Alex for things like attending church... No, she was _not_ going to let that happen without herself being around, too. Nick had invited her to church enough times that he might take kindly to it, if she chose to go...

"I'd like to meet them again, too," she said. "I didn't get to know the children when we rescued them. Maybe I should visit church with you, at least this Sunday, to get to know them. We could all go to lunch afterward."

"That's a good idea," he said, and then he smiled.

Chronica liked Nick's smile, when it was spontaneous like that. He could smile without really meaning it, like almost anyone else did, to be politely friendly when he felt it was appropriate. However, she liked his more genuine smiles better.

"I'll meet you after work tomorrow," he said, "and we can do a little shopping."

"Shopping?" she said, puzzled.

"If you were going to testify in court," he said, "would you wear workout clothes?"

"No, of course not," she said. "That wouldn't be appropriate." She looked askance at him, not understanding what that had to do with going shopping tomorrow.

"And you wouldn't wear the same clothes you wear to a tavern to go to work, would you?" he said.

She frowned. "No," she replied. "You know I wouldn't."

"Exactly," he said. "Since I've invited you to attend church previously, you may attend as my guest. I would be a poor host if I didn't equip you with a few items appropriate to the venue. I know which shop my sisters visit, when they're in town. It should have something that you will like, that also fits the 'dress code' for church."

"Are you saying that I don't have any clothes suitable for church?" she asked tensely. She couldn't decide if he was subtly insulting her or not.

"You might," he said. "However, most of what I've seen you wear when off-duty is too informal for church. What's worn in court might be too formal. Please, let me do this for you? I want to be a good host, and help you to feel comfortable there."

He seemed sincere, and she knew from experience that he was usually honest. The echoes of his emotions did not suggest that he was mocking her. He radiated that he was both pleased and concerned. That matched his words, and facial expressions. Well, it might be fun to get some new clothes. It would be interesting to see what he found appealing, too. "All right," she said, still sounding and feeling uncertain. "We can go look."

He smiled again. "Great," he said. "I'll wait outside the office at quitting time, and we'll go see what we can find."

She suddenly realized she'd never heard him say "we" before, in reference to her and himself. She liked the sound of it. She smiled back at him. "I'll see you then," she said.

As she'd anticipated, the shopping trip had its awkward moments. The shop had a fair variety of options. However, most of them were somehow... she searched for a fitting word... too feminine. Soft pastels, ruffles and lace simply were _not_ things she favored. They were also more conservative than what she thought of as being "her style."

One corner of Nick's mouth had gradually pulled upward as she looked around and felt like she was drowning in a sea of frills. He tapped her shoulder gently, and tipped his head in a gesture that invited her to follow him. She'd briefly hoped that he was leading her out of the store, but instead he was leading her toward the back. There, to her relief, were clothes that had stronger colors with neither ruffles nor lace.

He selected the dress she now wore, a rust-colored damask with deeper rust embroidery around the square neckline, cuffs, waist and hem. "Would you be willing to try one of these on?" he asked. "I think the color would compliment your eyes, and the style might flatter your figure." He paused for a heartbeat or two, and his cheeks turned a little pinker. "I'll let you choose the correct size," he added.

So he _had_ noticed her figure. She'd wondered, since he always looked at her face (at least when she was watching). She took the dress from him, and checked the tag for its size. Was it a coincidence that it was the correct size? She might never know. "I'll try it," she said, as if taking on a challenge.

"I'd like to see you in it, if only for a moment," he said softly. "Most of my kinswomen are too slender for this style to look right."

She turned and took the garment into the dressing room. He was right about how most of his sisters had slender figures, lacking her stronger curves. This was also true of his great-great-great granddaughter Angelina. Nick's mother, Shyla, was slender, and his wife had been even slimmer. Yet there were a few among the Saverem females who had curves as prominent as her own; she suspected that must have been an inheritance from Vash's side of the family, since the more slender figures appeared to have come from Shyla.

She quickly changed, and considered her reflection in the full-length mirror. The color did compliment and draw attention to the hue of her eyes, better than the colors she usually wore. She suddenly wondered why she'd never noticed this before. She made a mental note to add more rust-colored garments to her wardrobe.

The cut of the dress caused it to flow smoothly over her ample chest and draw in enough to accentuate her narrow waist. From there, it flared out gently from her hips to allow enough room to walk unrestricted. If needful, she could easily kick someone without the skirt encumbering her. The dress's skirt swished around her legs as she turned to check the visual effect of the dress from all angles.

To her surprise, she thought she looked well in it. This dress didn't display her figure's best features as blatantly as most of the clothes she usually wore off-duty did, but it did emphasize them in a more understated way. There was something... was "elegant" the word she wanted? ...about the way this dress flowed over her body. If Nick still liked the dress after seeing her in it, she'd ask him to buy it.

She walked out, still feeling awkward. She was unaccustomed to dresses or skirts. It felt strange to have fabric swishing loosely around her lower body, instead of feeling the snugger fabric of slacks or jeans wrapped separately around each leg.

It felt even stranger to realize that Nick had chosen better for her than she might have chosen for herself. She looked at him as she stepped out of the dressing area. He smiled. It was the kind of smile that indicated genuine pleasure, instead of the kind that looked merely polite. His gaze briefly traveled her full length, and then returned to her face.

"Thank you," he said softly. "When one of my sisters tried on that style, she looked like a little girl wearing her mother's dress. It certainly doesn't have that effect when you are the one wearing it."

Was that admiration in his eyes? He'd never looked at her that way before, at least not that she'd seen. She looked down at the dress, and reflexively smoothed it over her body with her hands. He'd never paid her such a compliment before, either. This dress was _definitely_ going home with her.

"I think it will do," she said cautiously.

"Good," he said. "Now let's get one alternative, in case you decide you'd like to come a second time. After that, you're on your own."

She looked up at him speculatively, and saw that he was grinning. His emotional echoes indicated he was making a joke, but not mocking her. She smiled at him, and saw him nod before he turned to look at a rack of blouses.

He selected a blouse made of a soft, sheer, cream-colored fabric. The part of the blouse that would go over her body was lined with something equally soft and opaque, but the sleeves were unlined and would show her arms almost as well as a sleeveless shirt. The soft collar was tailored to lie flat against the blouse, instead of stiffly standing upright and then folding over like the collars on most work shirts. A rust-colored ribbon about as wide as his thumb was tied in an unassuming bow between the collar's rounded corners.

"You could wear something like this with any of the slacks you wear to court," he said. "And you could wear it to court, also." Suddenly he put it back on the rack. "I'm sorry," he said, coloring slightly. "I should let you pick something you like. I guess it's a bad habit left over from when I helped my daughters shop."

She found the blouse he'd chosen, which was indeed within acceptable limits for appearing in court. "I can try it," she said indifferently.

"While you're doing that," he said, "you may also want to pick a petticoat from that section." He pointed toward the other back corner of the shop, which was filled with feminine undergarments. He was very carefully _not_ looking in that direction. "My girls said its customary to wear one under a dress or skirt, and it helps keep the legs warm."

"You're not going to make any suggestions there?" she asked, mildly surprised.

"I'm not allowed into that section," he said. "My wife always wanted to surprise me with what she'd chosen, and my sisters and daughters and so forth always said - correctly - that what they wore underneath was none of my business."

She felt wickedly inclined to tease him about this. "You can come with me if you'd like," she said mischievously.

His cheeks reddened. "That's okay," he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I'll wait over there while you shop that section. Get whatever you feel you need, and I'll pay for it when we leave."

Chronica suppressed a giggle. Sometimes, Nick was almost as bashful as his mother. She watched as he returned to the front of the store, keeping his back toward the corner where the underthings were displayed. She understood that he meant to be polite and respectful, but she was itching to know his preferences. Ah well, perhaps another time she could persuade him to venture opinions.

She went to the specified corner, and selected a petticoat as he'd suggested. It took some looking to find one that wasn't too frilly to suit her, but she eventually found one that she liked well enough to try on. He had a point about it being good to keep the legs warm on chilly, windy mornings. The desert wasn't always hot.

She returned to the dressing room, and tried on the petticoat with the dress. It didn't show beneath the hem, and it didn't feel uncomfortable. It would do. She exchanged dress and petticoat for her jeans and the blouse he'd suggested. The blouse had just enough tailoring to flow over her body as the dress had, except that it stopped only a hand's breadth and a half below her waist. It could be worn either tucked into her pants, or else un-tucked.

The blouse's colors also suited her coloring well. It had never occurred to her that Nick might be such a connoisseur of female clothing! If she'd only known, she might have gone shopping with him sooner. She took off the soft blouse and put on her work shirt, and gathered her selected garments to take to the cashier.

She decided she would visit this shop again. This "softly elegant" effect had a certain appeal. Nick's appreciation of those designs didn't hurt her interest in them, either.

Her first visit to church, only a few days later, also had its awkward moments. Alex had already arrived with Deborah and Lydia, and they were sitting on the bench with one girl on each side of Nick's twin. She slipped ahead of Nick when they reached that bench, and then she sat down beside the nearest girl.

Nick sat beside her, looking steadfastly toward the front. She looked at him closely. He was keeping his emotions completely to himself, which had to be on purpose. He must have an opinion about their seating arrangement, but he was determined not to share it.

She hadn't seen him dressed this nicely outside of court appearances. He sat beside her wearing a white shirt, a dark grey vest, and black slacks. He'd placed his thick Bible in his lap, and rested his hands on top of it.

She glanced to her other side, nodding politely at the girl she later learned was Deborah, and saw that she also had a Bible in her lap. Looking past her, she saw the same was true for both Alex and Lydia.

Nick moved, lifting his Bible in one hand. She saw that there was a second, smaller Bible concealed beneath it. He offered it to her with his other hand. She accepted, feeling grateful. He'd not been kidding, at all, when he talked about "equipping her with a few items appropriate to the venue."

She'd known Nicholas was thoughtful and considerate before that day. However, she'd not fully appreciated how deep those two qualities went. It was strange to think how, after twenty-one years, he could still pleasantly surprise her - and do it so thoroughly!

She opened the book, curious. Inside the cover, he'd written, "May this serve as a light to guide you on your way, especially in dark times." He'd signed his name under that message as "Nicholas W. Saverem." She had seen that before. She still wondered what the "W" represented. She pointed at the initial, and looked askance at him.

(Better to show you,) his thoughts whispered gently into her mind. (Remind me after lunch, please, if I forget. For now, let's listen to the service.)

(All right,) she thought in reply.

He'd never spoken directly into her mind before. She'd wondered how his mental voice might feel. As expected, it felt like him; most mental voices were a combination of the person's mind, emotions, and their physical voice. Nick's mental voice was no exception to that general rule, and she liked how his felt.

She felt a little heat in her cheeks, and quickly turned her attention to the service to avoid growing truly embarrassed. She expected that the service should easily bore her enough that she'd forget how pleasant it was to have enjoyed a few seconds of Nick's undivided attention. It would be very easy to get used to that kind of attention from him, she found herself thinking. She felt more heat in her face, and worked harder to redirect her full attention to the service.

After lunch, Nick had taken her on a drive out to the orphanage outside of town. He showed her to a grave, which was mostly a slab of rock with a cross carved into it. Stuck into the ground at one end of the slab of rock was a large metal cross, partly wrapped in fraying cloth that was strapped on by leather bands. She'd seen the grave before; it was one of December's historical landmarks. She looked askance at him.

He knelt and brushed sand away from a small stone carving at the foot of the grave. "Nicholas D. Wolfwood," it said, with the date of the man's death. She knew enough about local history to know the man whose remains rested in that grave had been an assassin, belonging to a guild ultimately run by Knives. The man had defied the guild, and died from injuries inflicted while he was protecting the orphanage and its inhabitants.

For some strange reason, the man had called himself a priest... though there was no record of him performing any priestly duties beyond assisting with some burials.

"My middle name is Wolfwood," Nick said softly. "Papa named me after this man, who was his best friend."

"But he was human, wasn't he? This man, I mean," she said, pointing to the grave.

"Yes, he was," Nick said. "Papa buried him here, when he died. Papa is the one who has made sure that Wolfwood would not be forgotten. He wrote most of the biography that the average schoolchild reads to learn about this not-so-priestly priest."

That would explain why an ex-assassin would become something of a folk legend, as a hero. Vash would be honest, but also positive, in portraying a dead friend's life. She'd not known where the biography originated, prior to this conversation.

"I had no idea," she said honestly.

"Most people don't," he said. "Papa wanted him remembered for himself, not as part of any other man's legend. At least, that's what he always said. He never mentioned what other legend he was concerned might get connected with, or possibly even overshadow, Wolfwood's."

"The legend of Vash the Stampede," Chronica said with certainty.

Nick glanced up at her, surprised. "The man buried in May, or the monument in Seeds?" he asked. "What connection could either one possibly have with Papa's friend?"

Chronica laughed. "He never told you?" she said, surprised. "Your father used to be called 'Vash the Stampede' ... you _do_ know his name is 'Vash,' at least, don't you?"

"I know his name," Nick said impatiently, "but I thought the similarity of the name on the memorial stones was merely a coincidence." He looked back down at the inscription by the grave. "I'm not the only 'Nicholas,' so why should I assume that Papa is the only 'Vash'?"

"As far as I know, unless someone named their child after him, your father is the only 'Vash' in the universe."

"Grandma Rem named her son after him, but that man is long dead," Nick said quietly. "I don't know if there have been any others."

Chronica had seen the memorial garden in Seeds village that told about Rem and how she saved humanity from extinction during the great fall. It also told how she had barely survived, and had been found partly crushed and severely burned amid wreckage that crashed to the surface during the great fall. Though more dead than alive, Seeds people had put her thoroughly burned body into cryo sleep instead of letting her die.

Centuries later, Shyla Jones (who would later become Vash's wife), had discovered the nameless burn victim. She gradually restored her body over a period of years, by careful application of plant regeneration techniques.

Rem had been awakened from cryo after her body was repaired. She had thereafter lived a long, full life surrounded by Vash and his family. Rem's husband and children were buried in that same memorial garden, also. Chronica had never paid any attention to the names on the other graves, though. She understood that descendants from that family still lived, scattered all over No Man's Land.

"Setting aside situations that seem likely to have been your uncle Knives' doing, or else imposters," Chronica said, "it appears that 'Vash the Stampede' was primarily a vigilante. He put his life on the line, regularly, to protect people from being hurt or killed. I'd love to hear _him_ tell those stories, though."

Nick finally stood up, and abandoned his contemplation of the grave. "You and me both," he said with conviction.

During the drive back to December, she'd grown distracted by the sunset and had allowed the Bible he'd bought her to slip off her lap. When she picked it up, a bookmark had nearly fallen out of it. She opened the book to look at the bookmark, and frowned.

"What is this?" she asked. "The Romans Road?"

"It is information to help you understand what the church teaches, and what many believe," he said.

"But these odd notations," she said, and chose a few at random. "This 'Romans 3:10, 23,' 'Romans 6:23,' 'John 3:16-18,' and so forth?"

"The Bible is an unusual book," Nick explained. "It's actually a collection of 66 different books, written over the course of several centuries, back on Earth. So when one wishes to find a specific reference or quote, it is described by book name, chapter, and verse. Each chapter is subdivided into a few or several verses, depending on its length."

"So 'Romans' is the book, chapter is 3, and verses 10 and 23?" she asked. "And this one, 'John 3:16-18' would mean book of John, chapter 3, verses 16, 17, and 18?"

"Yes," he said. "That's exactly right."

"It's confusing," she complained.

"It will be less confusing after you have some time to get used to it," he said in a reassuring manner. "It's more precise for finding information than merely a chapter or page number, as most books provide."

"I suppose," she said doubtfully.

They'd driven the rest of the way home in silence.

Strictly from curiosity, she had looked up those references after she got home. The seven references were Romans 3:10 and 23, Romans 5:12, Romans 6:23, Romans 5:8, Romans 10:9, 10; and Romans 10:13.

The other bit, John 3:16-18, was printed at the bottom. She wondered if it was more important, or if it were a favorite reference of the publisher, or if it was merely an afterthought. She found that and read it, also, for good measure.

The information made her feel uncomfortable, so she'd put it aside.

She'd continued attending church, to make sure that neither Deborah nor Lydia sat by Nick. She also took care that they had no opportunity to make any too strongly favorable impressions on him. They were welcome to pursue Alex all they liked, but she wouldn't allow either of them to get close to Nick.

...

Now, half a year later, she'd expected a vacation from the constant weekly services. Yet here she was in Seeds village _attending church_, with the whole Saverem family - including Vash. She suppressed a sigh.

She had to concede that sometimes the sermons preached in church were interesting. Most times the music was pleasant. However, she mostly retained her disinterest. If it weren't for Nick being there, with other plant females around, she probably wouldn't come half so often - if at all.

Well, she might come occasionally just to see the look in Nick's eyes when he thought she looked well in a particular dress or outfit. She had to admit, that was _very_ pleasant, even if the service that day wasn't.

After the service was over, she'd ask Vash about this church-attending business. Surely, he couldn't find it such a great thing as his offspring did. That must be his wife's influence on the family. Satisfied with this plan, she settled herself to endure the rest of the current sermon.


	6. Overheard

_Vash and Chronica belong to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_Approximately 3021 years after the manga ends ... and nearly six years after Nicholas and Chronica had their first serious argument..._

...

**Overheard**

Nicholas enjoyed the lunch with his family, even though Chronica had come also.

Every other independent plant attended that lunch. However, every other independent plant was a relative - either biologically, or by adoption. Chronica had no family. At times like this, it would have been both rude and unkind to exclude her.

Nicholas understood all of these things. He also knew that he was being selfish. He just wanted some time to relax with his family. Somehow, he could never relax when Chronica was around.

He didn't dislike her - he'd figured out that much, at least. There was just something unsettling about her, something which always made him just a little bit uncomfortable when ever she was around. Perhaps it was knowing that she wanted more from him than he felt ready to give.

He wasn't trying to lead her on. Unfortunately, he still didn't know yet what he thought or felt about being more than friends with her. He still missed his wife, even though she had died 21 years ago.

Nicholas knew that he couldn't give Chronica (or anyone else, for that matter) a fair chance until he finished mourning. So he was trying, very hard, to let go of the past so that he could decide what to do about the present and future. He'd not succeeded yet, but he continued trying.

Since lunch was finished, his kin were beginning to disperse. Lina and Tessla, who stayed in the only real guest room in Vash's house, had gone off to do some shopping with some of their other kinswomen. He and Alex would be sleeping in the partially-converted storage room behind Vash's bedroom, but Alex had gone to the infirmary with their sister, Naomi, to examine some new equipment.

His sister Rem finished washing the dishes, and left with her husband for their home nearby. Nicholas ducked into the back restroom by the makeshift guest room. He needed the restroom anyhow. He also hoped that if he was out of sight, Chronica would leave the house.

While doing his business, he thought that he didn't much care where she went. She could go to her hotel room, or go after his kinswomen who were shopping, or go to visit the graves of the many murdered plants, or go somewhere else altogether. He just wanted her to go away, for today, so that he could relax for awhile. He hoped that wish wasn't being too unreasonable.

He finished what he needed to do, washed his hands, and took a deep breath. Knowing his luck, he might just find her on the other side of the door when he opened it. He began to open it softly, when he heard Chronica's voice.

It was a sound he recognized; the tone Chronica used to scold wild youths who were on the edge of breaking the law, but hadn't quite crossed the line. If she was badgering his father...

He was immediately out of the restroom and approaching the end of the tiny hallway that opened to the dining and sitting areas. When he heard his father's voice, however, he stopped short of going around that corner.

"Why don't we sit down and talk about this calmly?" Vash invited. He didn't sound or feel at all upset, which surprised his eldest son a great deal.

Nicholas heard Chronica flop down onto the couch. "I'm calm," she said tensely.

"That's good," Vash said. Nicholas knew that his father had sat down, too, because he heard another creaky spring sound off inside the couch.

"Why did you let your wife teach your children to do something as ridiculous as attending church all the time?" Chronica asked.

"Why does it bother you so much that my family are regular church attenders?" Vash asked. He sounded puzzled.

"So many of the things those preachers say don't make any sense," Chronica complained. "It's so unrealistic! How can anybody believe such things?"

"It sounds like you're more concerned about church teachings than about church attendance," Vash observed. "Am I understanding that correctly?"

"I suppose so," Chronica said. She didn't sound happy.

"Ok," Vash said. "Let's begin with the idea that there might be a 'God,' or some sort of supreme being who is all-powerful. If such an entity exists, is it more likely that such a being would be creative or destructive?"

"I don't know," Chronica said.

"If the most powerful being in the entire universe was inclined to be destructive," Vash said, "do you really think that anything at all would still exist?"

Chronica snorted. "I suppose you have a point, there," she conceded. "A destructive being, able to do anything it wished, with none strong enough to restrain it, would likely have destroyed everything by now."

"Exactly," Vash said gently. "If there is a supreme being, or a 'God' that deserves the title, that being _must_ be creative. Human artists show forth somewhat of themselves in their creations. So doesn't it also seem likely that a 'God' would reflect something of Himself in His creations?"

"I guess that makes sense," she said after a long, thoughtful pause.

"So what is the first thing a little kid says," Vash asked, "when they see or otherwise experience something that they recognize is unjust?"

"That's not fair!" Chronica said, using a higher sound to her voice as if imitating a child's. Then she chuckled, and sighed.

"This would suggest that any 'God' who exists may possibly be both creative and just," Vash said. "Am I making sense so far?"

"Yes," Chronica said. She was sounding less tense than at first.

Nicholas leaned against the corner. He hadn't planned to eavesdrop, but he couldn't stop listening either. He didn't want to interrupt, so he slowly and silently lowered himself to sit on the floor as he listened. He turned so that his back rested against the wall.

"Justice can be harsh," Vash was saying. "Even if the punishment always fits the crime, we all make so many mistakes that we'd soon earn destruction even from a creative God who had no joy in destruction. The fact that we haven't all been destroyed suggests that this God of Justice is also merciful, and perhaps even loving toward His creation."

"I can see some logic in that," Chronica said slowly.

"This is where things like 'the Romans road' come from," Vash said. "A just God must provide some method whereby justice can be tempered with mercy. The method must still satisfy justice, and it must be offered to everyone. However, everyone who desires that mercy must accept the provision and agree to the terms."

"It would be a little like accepting the option for a bail bondsman to get one out of jail to go directly onto probation," Vash continued. "It would only work if the criminal agreed to change their life, to thereafter try to avoid crime instead of pursuing it. Is this still making sense?"

"Yes, I guess so," Chronica said reluctantly. "Why can't the preacher explain it this sensibly?"

It was Vash's turn to chuckle. "I don't know," he said.

"What you've said sounds fine, as far as it goes," Chronica said after a lengthy thoughtful pause. "But what's to say this Jesus fellow wasn't some kind of a madman?"

"Yes, Jesus is an interesting paradox," Vash agreed. "He could have been a philosopher, a teacher, delusional, a madman, a prophet, or ... who He claimed to be. We can only pick one of those options, though, and not blend them."

"Why not?" Chronica said.

"If he was a teacher, prophet, or philosopher," Vash said, "then His claims to be the son of God would largely negate everything He taught. If He were either delusional or a madman, then His teachings would not be so consistent and benevolent. He can't have been a prophet, teacher or philosopher who went mad later, because He always claimed to be God's son. That wasn't an idea that appeared later; it was always there."

"Are you saying that you think this Jesus really _was_ God's son?" Chronica said, sounding shocked.

"I think it's more likely than the alternatives," Vash said. "It's the only interpretation that's completely consistent with everything He said and did. He promoted peace and love, for His whole life. I've always believed in those, and in God. I learned about Jesus later."

"So you're into this whole Christianity religious thing," Chronica said, accusingly.

"If there is no 'God,' then it doesn't matter what I believe," Vash said reasonably. "If, on the other hand, God does exist, then isn't it wisest to do my best to make peace with Him?"

"I can't say that I never have doubts," Vash admitted sadly. "Especially with how extreme my own sins have been. I sometimes can't help wondering if He can ever forgive me. I haven't even been able to forgive myself. But I keep trying, and doing the best I can, and hoping and believing as much as I can."

Chronica was silent for a long time. "You've given me some things to think about," she finally said. The couch springs creaked from her side of the couch, and Nicholas knew she'd stood.

"May I offer you one more thing to think about?" Vash said in his gentle way.

"What?" Chronica sounded as if all of her prior tension had returned.

"Marriage is more about hearts than bodies," Vash said softly. "If the heart is involved, the body will follow. Going about it backwards rarely works well. Please, think about that, too."

There was a very long silence before Chronica finally said softly, "I will think about it."

"Thank you," Vash said. "That's all I ask." The couch spring creaked again, suggesting he stood up. "I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you," Chronica said.

Nicholas heard the door open and close, and then his father's sigh as he again sat on the couch.

"You can come out now, Nicholas," he said conversationally. "She's gone."

Nicholas shamefacedly rose, and walked around the corner. He chose an adjacent armchair for his own seat. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want to interrupt."

"And you were curious," Vash said, scratching at the back of his neck. He shrugged "I said nothing I'm ashamed of you overhearing, but she may be annoyed if she learns."

"I'm glad I know she talked with you," Nicholas said. "It will help me have some idea what to say to her, if she starts asking questions like that of me."

"Yes," Vash said. He sighed again. "There's so much hurt inside of her. I hope she can find the answers she needs. The Bible is a good place to begin."

"That it is," Nicholas agreed.

"Would you like to walk with me, out to Shyla's grave?" Vash asked. "I like to be there at sunset. It's not the same as watching the sunset with her, but it's as close as I can come now."

"Of course," Nicholas said.

They rose and put on wraps against the coming coolness of the evening, and walked out toward the gravestone with Shyla's name on it.

...

Two years - and God alone knew how many hundreds of thousands of questions - later, Nicholas watched, misty-eyed, as Chronica went forward and made her confession of faith at the Seeds village church.

...

...

...

...

**Author's note**: _This chapter was written for two reasons. _

_The in-character reason was that Chronica would need to ask someone a few basic questions somewhere along the line, and this situation made as much sense as any. Nightow's writing suggests that Vash was strongly inclined toward Christianity. It seems likely that Vash would pursue learning more about it, and join that faith sometime after the manga ends - if he hadn't already. I don't think this is a subject he would take lightly, and goof off about if someone had honest questions._

_The outside reason is that there are many ridiculous rumors about this particular faith (religion = how a faith is put into practice), and sometimes it's good to set the record straight. I hope this helps to clear up any confusion. Any future chapter(s) in this story will not need to be so specific about beliefs, since that material has already been covered._


	7. Choices and Changes

_Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me. I'm just borrowing. ;-)_

_The beginning of this chapter occurs approximately 3040 years after the manga ends ... and then it goes into flashback, beginning 3023 years post-manga (roughly where the prior chapter ends). Thereafter, it moves forward until it catches up with the beginning scene._

...

**Choices and Changes**

Nicholas smiled as he straightened Alex's tie for him. They were in the side room at the front of December's main chapel. He looked over his brother's attire, attempting to do slightly better than a full-length mirror in making sure that Alex looked his very best. After he finished adjusting the tie, he could find nothing else amiss.

"Nervous?" he asked his younger twin in a teasing tone of voice.

"Oh, no, not at all," Alex joked in reply. Then he said more seriously, "At least you know what you're doing."

"I'm not so sure about that," Nicholas said, and laughed.

"I had no idea that it could be like this," Alex said softly, as he began checking Nicolas' clothing for any imperfections. He didn't want his other brothers, who were tending their own appearances on the other side of the room, to overhear. Their father, and the younger generation, were out in the audience. "Now I understand why Mama always called it an 'awakening' ... it's so intense! It's like half of me had been asleep, but is now awake."

"Congratulations." Nicholas said.

"Thanks," Alex said. He shifted his feet. "And for whatever it's worth now, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Nicholas asked, genuinely puzzled.

"For not being more understanding after... what happened forty years ago," Alex said. "I knew the pain of losing brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. I had no idea what it could be like to love someone enough to want to marry her. I can't bear to imagine how it must have been to lose that... and children, too." He shook himself from head to toe, and the expression on his face was a blend of fear and sorrow.

"I never expected you to understand it that completely," Nicholas said softly. He reached out and squeezed his twin's shoulder. "I hope you never have to experience that kind of pain. But don't worry about it too much. I remember how I felt before my own 'awakening' reasonably well. I know that the depth of love... or pain... that can come after awakening is beyond imagining before it comes."

Alex nodded, and looked at the clock. "I think we're as ready as we can get," he said. "I suppose the reason for coming so early was to allow the ladies plenty of time?"

"Very likely," Nicholas said. "They probably haven't finished arranging their hair yet, let alone getting dressed."

Alex chuckled slightly at that, as if uncertain whether his brother was teasing or serious. "After I started noticing Lydia, I fear I largely lost track of what was happening with you. Would you care to share any of that, while we wait?"

(Not out loud,) Nicholas replied in thought. (Give me a few, and I'll make up a memory package for you. Please understand that it won't be complete, since some things are too personal [or are confidences I won't break], but it may include a few things you'd understand... that I wouldn't necessarily want to have shared with anyone else.)

(Perfect!) Alex thought.

Nicholas shared an inner smile with his twin.

He closed his eyes, and his brows drew together as he concentrated. It wasn't long before he looked up again, grinning. They briefly touched foreheads, to make the transfer. Then both brothers sat back. Alex closed his eyes, and began processing the newly shared memories.*

Nicholas allowed his mind to drift back over what he felt were the most important things that had happened during the prior seventeen years... most of which he'd not shared.

...

... _Approximately 17 years earlier_...

...

While escorting Chronica home from a finished after-church lunch, Nicholas said, "When we get to your house, would you mind if I came in and talked some?"

She looked at him speculatively for a moment, and then nodded. "You feel like you're worried about something," she observed.

"Yes," he said. "I'm worried that I've been a far worse ass than usual. If I have, I need to try to make it right before I do anything worse."

"You aren't _always_ an ass," she said softly.

He almost smiled. "It's kind of you to say that," he said.

She shrugged. "I was being honest, not kind," she said indifferently.

They walked in silence until they were in her house and the door was closed. Then they sat down on opposite ends of her couch, and he sighed.

"I think we've become friends," he said, "especially over the last three years, with all of your thousands or millions of questions about life, the universe, and everything else that could possibly have anything to do with faith... I feel like we've gotten to know each other more during that time, than in all the years that came before them."

"I think that's a fair statement," she said cautiously.

"I know you've been puzzled when I suddenly seem very angry," he said. "I probably should have explained it before now. When that happens, I'm _not_ angry at you." He looked at her, his eyes troubled.

She nodded. "I thought so," she said, "but I don't know what _does_ anger you so much."

"When that happens," he said, looking away from her again, "It means that something reminded me about those four damned motherless..." he fell silent, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. "Whenever I remember what they did to you, I want to go back in time and tear off every part of their bodies that they used to hurt you. And I want to do it on the day _before_ they touched you."

He heard her inhale, but he couldn't bear to look at her just then. He needed to finish saying what he had come to say, while he still had the courage to say it.

He rested his elbows on his knees, and bent forward until his forehead rested on his tightly clenched fists. "Intimacy should _never_ hurt," he said tensely. "If it does, somebody is doing it wrong. _Nobody_ should ever have to go through what happened to you. We plants have such retentive memories... I wouldn't be surprised if you still have nightmares about it."

"Not this month, at least not yet," she said, very softly.

He nodded without looking up. "I figured as much," he said, equally softly. "I figured something else, too. I figured you probably haven't gone through an 'awakening' of the heart yet. Am I right?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said.

"Damn," he whispered, and then abruptly sat up straight. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't use words like that." He bowed his head thoughtfully for a moment, and then began to explain. "In ordinary humans, it tends to happen sometime during adolescence."

"For Plants," he continued, "it seems that we need to begin with a strong bond of friendship already established with someone. Then something happens to kick-start our hearts. When that happens, we fall _very_ deeply in love. We desperately want to make that person happy... preferably by marrying them."

"However, if marriage with that beloved one is not possible," he added, "then we will usually express our deep love by some manner of sacrifice. That usually translates to doing something that helps them find happiness without us, such as getting out of the way if they love someone else."

"Why are you asking me about this?" she said, sounding puzzled.

"I am reminded what it was like," he said. "Alex is in the very earliest stages, noticing one of his apprentices. She's so young that it's likely he will to have to deal with a _very_ long wait. She's a good girl, though. I think they'll be good for each other, when ever she notices him."

He sighed and shook his head.

"If your heart awakens toward me, and I can't reciprocate," he said, anguished, "then I might hurt you worse than _they_ did. I don't mean physically, but in your heart. And I do _not_ want to do that to you." He bowed over to his former position of resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his fists.

She was silent.

"I don't know if my heart can awaken a second time," he said, self-loathing evident in every word. "I should have suggested that you seek one of the younger male plants, from the very beginning, instead of letting you waste your time on a used-up widower like me. You deserve someone who can love you as completely as you will love him."

She scooted closer to him, and rested one hand on his nearest bicep. "Does it really matter that much to you, what happens to me?" she asked, astonished.

"Of course it does," he said. "I'm your friend, aren't I? I'd be a very poor friend if I didn't care. I fear I've already been a very poor friend, from not speaking of this sooner. It was so nice to have someone to spend evenings with... I've been selfish. I shouldn't have done that, not when it risked hurting you."

She sniffled, and he looked toward her to see her eyes brimming with tears. "Nobody's ever cared for me even that much, for as long as I can remember, except perhaps Domina," she said, barely above a whisper. "And with her, it was entirely sisterly."

"You haven't talked with Papa enough, then," he said, turning his face back to stare at the wall in front of him. His voice still sounded pained, and guilt-ridden. "He cares that much for everyone. I still have a long way to go, to learn to be as caring as he is."

There was complete silence between them for a time.

"I think I'll take the risk," she said softly. "I'm not used to being loved. I don't think I'd know what to do with it, if I was. I don't want to start over with a stranger. I'd rather spend more time with a friend."

Her hand still rested on his bicep, so he placed his other hand over hers. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "If I can't -"

"You haven't hurt me yet," she interrupted. "Maybe you won't."

He sighed and nodded. "All right," he said. "At least I've been honest, and warned you. I'll completely understand it, if you ever change your mind. Just please let me know, so I can behave appropriately."

"I don't think I'll change my mind," she said.

After a lengthy pause, he spoke again. "I should go," he said. "I promised to take Angelina shopping this afternoon, and I don't want to break my promise."

"Why does she only call you 'Grandpa' and omit all three 'greats'?" Chronica asked.

"That started getting on my nerves," he admitted. "All the 'greats,' that is. It sounded too formal. I asked her to just call me 'Grandpa' instead."

"I see," she said. "I suppose it would start sounding strange or silly after awhile."

"It did, believe me," he said.

They sat in silence awhile longer, before she sighed and slipped her hand out from under his, and off his bicep. "I hope you two have fun shopping," she said wistfully.

"I'd invite you to come with us," he said, "except that then Angelina would almost certainly want to invite Deborah and Lydia, too. Lydia would be fine, but Deborah can be awkward. She tends to be careless, and that can result in expensive difficulties."

Chronica chuckled. "I understand," she said. "Perhaps we can shop together some other time, when that difficulty can be avoided."

"You know where Angelina likes to do most of her shopping," Nicholas said mischievously. "I can tell from your wardrobe changes over the last few years that you've been back to that store several times. If you chanced to be shopping in that store on your own, there's not much that I could do about it."

"You do have a point," Chronica said, smiling.

"Maybe I'll see you later, then," he said, standing to leave.

"Or sooner," Chronica replied, smiling mischievously.

They both chuckled, and then Nicholas walked to the door. He waved, and then let himself out, still grinning.

By coincidence, an hour and a half later, Chronica appeared in the very same clothing shop where Angelina and Nicholas were browsing. He was not so rude as to ignore her.

They continued browsing together as a threesome. They made some purchases there, and in other shops, and finally ended the long afternoon with Nicholas buying dinner for all three of them.

He and Angelina walked home with Chronica, and then left to go to their own house.

It was a mostly pleasant day, all things considered.

Nicholas walked into his bedroom, the same one that he had previously shared with his wife. Clara's possessions were still present in every part of the room.

Oh, he'd sold a few of her things, and given a few others away to charity. Most of her clothing had left the house by one of those methods, though some had been given to Angelina. However, nearly every thing else Clara had owned remained somewhere in the house... as if waiting for her return.

But Clara could never come back.

Nicholas had to decide if he would continue to be a mourning widower, or if he would become a free man who might possibly consider marriage again. Chronica had stated plainly that she was willing to take the risk for him. She was alive, unlike his dear Clara.

"I'm sorry, Clara," he whispered. "If I must live without you, I don't think I can bear to do it alone. If she's willing to take a chance on me, I must at least _try_ to give her a fair chance. I feel like I'm failing you, doing that. I shall always love you..."

He bowed his head and wept for a time.

When he recovered, he went downstairs and knocked on Angelina's door. "I need to run an errand, but I'll return shortly. I'll lock the door."

"Okay," she said.

He went to an all-night grocery store, and asked if they had any extra empty boxes. "I need to pack a few things," he said.

"You can check around back," the manager said.

"Thank you," he replied.

He found what he needed, thanked the store's manager again, and returned home. He began by putting Clara's photograph into a desk drawer, which made his tears flow again. This time, he didn't stop to weep. Instead, he took the boxes upstairs and began tenderly packing each precious item.

It was time to let go... perhaps past time. Yet it was still an incredibly difficult, and terribly painful, thing to do.

Nicholas sighed, wiped away a few tears, and continued doing what needed to be done.

It took him nearly all night.

He would give them all to Angelina. Clara would probably have wanted that, anyway.

...

A few months after he expressed concern for the well-being of her heart, Nicholas started teaching Chronica the morning workout routine he'd learned from his father. It took her some time to achieve competence in all of the various exercises, but she learned every one and actively pursued proficiency.

When she realized how those exercises helped her to improve in speed, strength, agility, and endurance, she scolded him for holding back in their prior workout duels. He replied that he didn't think it was fair for her to buy _all_ of the dinners. That earned him a pillow in the face, and they ended up enjoying a pillow-fight using the decorative (yet thankfully, not fragile) pillows in the sitting room.

...

... _Approximately 8 years after Nicholas expressed concern over Chronica's heart, and thereafter gave his wife's remaining possessions to his great-great-great granddaughter_... _and approximately nine years prior to the day that Nicholas shared memories with Alex_...

...

Nicholas and Chronica were having yet another workout duel. This time, they were wrestling. They'd chosen the challenge that whomever could pin the other would not buy dinner. It was not the first time they'd chosen that challenge, though it was nearly the last.

They circled the room, lunging and dodging and each trying to capture the other's wrist or ankle. They'd done this several times before, without mishap.

Unlike prior wrestling matches, Nicholas zigged when he should have zagged. Chronica was somewhat swifter and stronger now than previously. Thereby she was able to take better advantage of his mistake. She tripped him, and pushed him onto his back on the floor. He began twisting to get away from her, so she straddled him and sat on him.

He abruptly stopped struggling. The position was compromising, even though both of them were fully clothed. Wiggling would only make it worse. Not to mention how, as her hips came down onto his, her eyes had widened and all color had drained from her face.

"Chronica," he said so softly that it was nearly a whisper, "are you all right?"

Her face contorted into an expression of horror, and a small whimper escaped from her lips. Her eyes were unfocused, looking past him at a memory of something terrible. She had been sweating a little before, but now she was suddenly drenched. Her hands felt clammy on his wrists.

He could guess what she was seeing in her memory, and he didn't want to leave her there.

"Chronica?" he asked again.

When she didn't respond, he gently disengaged his wrists from her grasp. He put her hands onto his shoulders by his neck. He reached up to take hold of her shoulders. He shook her gently, but she didn't snap out of it.

He let go of her shoulders, and took hold of her waist instead. He gently lifted her body off his, and moved her enough that she'd be sitting on his thighs instead of his hips and groin. Then he settled her and released her. He adjusted himself so that he was fully sitting up, and he took hold of her shoulders again.

"Chronica!" he said, again shaking her gently. "You're safe now. Nobody's trying to hurt you. Please, snap out of it!"

He had to shake her another time, less gently, before her eyes began to focus on him. For the first few heartbeats, she didn't seem to recognize him. Then she did. She began to tremble, a completely natural reaction to the horror she'd just recalled so vividly.

"I'm so sorry," he said softly. "I swear to you, I will _never_ hurt you on purpose. If I ever do anything that causes you pain, please tell me - and I'll stop, immediately. No matter what it is, or when."

She leaned forward, resting her forehead where his neck and shoulder joined, and sobbed for a long time.

He put his arms around her, and stroked her hair, as he'd done for his daughters when they had nightmares. He prayed that she would be healed in her memories, so that these nightmares - whether waking or sleeping - would not continue to plague her.

...

... _Approximately three years after Chronica's waking nightmare during the wrestling match_... _and six years prior to the day that Nicholas shared memories with Alex_...

...

Nicholas opened his door to welcome Chronica into his house. It was his turn to host their first weekly workout duel. As usual, the other would be in the light-gun arena.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she dropped her bag that held a change of clothing for going to dinner, and took off her jacket and hung it in the coat closet. As usual, she wore something daring... and probably without a bra, though he was trying very hard to _avoid_ looking where he could find out if she was (or wasn't) wearing that undergarment.

At least she only dressed like that at her house, or his, these days. She no longer wore anything remotely that provocative in public.

"Nick, can I ask you something?" she said. Then she looked around. "Angelina's not here for a visit, is she?"

"Yes, and no," he replied.

"Good," she said, and sat on his couch.

He sat half an arm's length away from her. "What is it?" he asked.

"Do you ever want to grope me?" she said.

He blinked, surprised by the question. He could tell from her facial expression and emotional echoes that she was honestly curious. "I try not to think that way," he said, after considering how best to answer such a shocking and unexpected question.

"So the thought has never crossed your mind?" She sounded somewhat disappointed.

"I didn't say that," he said cautiously. "It's just that we're not married, so I have no business thinking about touching you that way."

"You said it didn't have to hurt," she said, very softly. "I keep wondering what that would feel like."

"May I borrow your hand?" he asked.

She extended her nearest arm, putting her hand into the air over his lap and in front of his chest.

He gently took her hand into his, and adjusted their hands so that the back of his hand was resting comfortably on the couch's seat between them. Then he used his other hand to gently caress the back of her hand. "This is how it would feel," he said.

She sat stiffly, looking at their hands. She didn't tell him to stop, so he didn't.

As he continued gently caressing the back of her hand, he felt something change in her emotional echoes. The change rippled through her emotions, starting somewhere deep inside of her and slowly working its way toward the surface. It was subtle enough at first that he didn't recognize it.

When he did, his hand went still.

It was a blend of affection and... desire.

He gently released her hand. "We'd better get started, so that dinner won't be too late," he said hastily. "I'm in the mood for barbeque, how about you?"

She blinked. "Oh, yes, I suppose so," she said. After a pause, she suggested, "Shall we wrestle for it?"

They hadn't wrestled for three years. He could still feel that undercurrent in her emotions. It should only be the earliest beginnings, but it could grow quickly if encouraged. He wasn't sure it would be wise to encourage it too much, too soon. Especially since he still didn't know how he felt about her.

"Are you sure that's wise?" he said softly.

"I'm sure that you'll keep after me, until I'm back in the now, if I fall into the past," she said, "like you did last time. That's what matters. If we ever do marry, I'll have to get used to feeling your body against mine somewhere along the line. Besides, I don't want to live my life afraid that bumping into someone will set off one of those waking nightmares."

"All right," he reluctantly agreed.

Thankfully, there were no problems that evening. However, her new emotional undercurrent didn't go away. Nor did it weaken, at least not as far as he could tell. He would need to be extremely careful, to avoid accidentally encouraging her, as long as he felt only friendship.

After that, she started finding excuses to bump into him or touch him. A few weeks of that prompted him to talk to her about it... in an oblique fashion.

"If you want to link arms," he said, "please pick my left arm? There's no telling what might happen, so I want my gun arm free to take action if there's a need."

"So I can hold your left arm or hand, anytime I want to?" she asked.

"Anytime we're off duty," he corrected. "We need to be professional when we're at work, or else our co-workers will lose confidence that we can do our jobs."

"Good point," she said. "Agreed."

Thereafter, she claimed his left arm anytime they were off duty. It didn't change the times when she "accidentally" brushed against him or bumped into him (and both of those gradually grew more frequent), but at least it kept his right arm free to draw if it looked likely that he'd need to.

Much to his own surprise, Nicholas discovered that he didn't mind all that physical attention from Chronica nearly as much as he'd expected he might. She wasn't being grabby, except with his left arm. So he let her experiment, without further complaint.

...

... _Approximately four years after Chronica's heart began to awaken, and two years prior to the day when Nicholas shared memories with his twin brother_...

...

The workout had been going well, until they'd been sparring for awhile. He used a leverage technique to turn her arm, as a counter to her attack. From that time, her movements indicated that she was favoring that shoulder.

He stopped sparring, and put his fists on his hips. "I'd better take a look at that," he said. "I tried to be gentle enough to avoid hurting you, but it looks like I may have been too rough, after all. I'm sorry; I hadn't meant to hurt you."

"It's not so bad," she said unconvincingly.

He pulled a hassock from the place where it had been shoved against the wall, and gestured for her to sit on it. "Please," he said. "If I've injured you, then you win by default. This isn't supposed to hurt."

"We both get bruised all the time," she said.

"Bruises come with the territory," he said. "It's easy to land a little too hard, or block a little to hard. A wrenched shoulder or torn muscles, though, that's more serious. Even for plants. Please, let me check. If you're hurt worse than bruising, we're going to visit Lydia."

"Do you want me to remove my shirt?" she asked, eying him narrowly.

"It's sleeveless," he said, pretending not to understand what she was asking. "It won't be in the way while I examine your shoulder. Now sit, please. Don't be such a baby."

She glared at him for that last remark, but she sat without further protest.

He moved to stand beside her shoulder, choosing a position that did not make it easy to look down the front of her shirt. He began looking at her shoulder, and very gently touching to see if there were sore places. He found a tender spot almost immediately.

"How bad does that hurt?" he asked, since her wince didn't tell him anything beyond that it _did_ hurt.

"I've had worse," she said.

He continued gently feeling around her shoulder, from her collarbone to the base of the shoulder blade and from her neck to a short distance down her arm. She winced from his touch, in a few different places. He sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "Let's clean up, and then we can visit Lydia. After she checks your shoulder, I'll buy dinner."

"It's not that big of a deal," Chronica said. "We don't have a clear winner, yet."

"New rule," he said, "or at least, newly clarified. If someone becomes injured worse than a minor bruise, the one who caused that injury buys. I'm going to clean up."

He turned and went upstairs, leaving the downstairs restroom for her use, as was usual when they were in his home.

A few minutes later, he returned downstairs. He was still slightly damp, but he had on clean clothes suitable for going to dinner at a casual restaurant. She was still in the bathroom, but he could hear water splashing in a manner that suggested she was washing up. He sighed, internally kicking himself for being careless.

It took longer than usual, but not beyond reason considering she had to work around the pain of an injured shoulder. She emerged slightly damp, smelling of soap, and wearing a clean [suitable for public view] blouse and jeans.

He smiled at her, and went to the coat closet to get their jackets.

"It will probably be fine in a few days," she said.

"We're still going to see what Lydia has to say," he said firmly as he draped her jacket over her shoulders. "Unless you'd prefer we visit Deborah?"

"Lydia will be fine," she said quickly.

Nicholas smirked. They both knew that, of Alex's two apprentices, Lydia was learning her art the best.

Deborah meant well. She tried, by fits and starts, to learn better. Then she would grow frustrated, and, for a short time, she would not try at all. Overall, she was generally not as careful as she needed to be. Sometimes Alex expressed concern that Deborah might never learn healing well enough to tend patients unsupervised. At times, Alex also considered suggesting to Deborah that she might do better choosing a different profession.

They went to Lydia's house, and Nicholas briefly outlined the situation. Lydia nodded, and invited Chronica into her bedroom. He waited impatiently in the sitting area, during the examination.

When the two came out, he stood. "What have I done?" he asked, deeply concerned.

"A few muscles are slightly strained, nothing worse," Lydia said. "Ice, taking care not to overuse the arm while the shoulder muscles heal, and perhaps a little gentle massage should have her back to normal in a week or so."

He closed his eyes, and exhaled. "I'm sorry," he said again. He felt a little sick. He'd been so determined never to hurt her, but he had. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Stop saying that," Chronica said. "I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I've seen you do that same move, but a lot harder, when you're making arrests."

He nodded, but he also hung his head. "What do I owe you for the house call, Lydia?" he asked.

"Chronica said something about you buying dinner?" Lydia suggested.

"Sure," he said.

Dinner was a bit awkward, with the four of them: Chronica, Lydia, Nicholas... and his guilt. However, the two ladies got to talking amiably, and conspired to cheer him up.

He and Chronica walked Lydia home afterward, and then Nicholas escorted Chronica to her home. She seemed a little surprised when he came in after her.

"You're not to overuse that arm," he said. "So I'll get some ice for you, while you change or whatever you usually do to get ready for sleep."

"If you're going to spoil me like this," she said mischievously, "I may have to get injured more often."

He spent the next week sleeping on her couch, tending chores around the house so she wouldn't overuse her arm while her shoulder was still extra-sensitive.

On the fifth night, he was awakened by a strange sound from Chronica's room. Her door was left about a finger-width open, so he knocked. She did not reply, but he heard a gasp.

He turned on the hallway light, and then pushed open her door. She was thrashing on her bed, moving as if trying to fight off someone on top of her.

He went in, and knelt beside her bed. He gently caught her hands, and started calling her name. It took him a few tries before her eyes closed, and then opened wide, and she sat bolt upright.

"No!" she said, sounding terrified.

"It's all right," he said soothingly. "You're safe. It was only a nightmare, and it's over."

She gasped again, and looked at him. "Nick?" she said hesitantly, after a pause.

"Yes, it's Nicholas," he said.

She put her arms around his neck, and wept on his shoulder. He put his arms around her, and tried to comfort her. Eventually, she cried herself to sleep.

He gently laid her back onto her bed, and pulled up the blankets to cover her. He wanted her to be warm, more than her thin pajamas would accomplish, against the chill of the night. He kissed her forehead before he left, and prayed she'd have a restful sleep for the remainder of the night.

...

... _Approximately two years later, and one month before the brothers share Nicholas' recent memories_...

...

They'd gone dancing that evening, and Chronica had turned her ankle. Lydia said it wasn't sprained, but she should probably avoid walking on it as much as possible until it healed.

So Nicholas had offered to escort her home. She'd needed to lean heavily on his arm, but she wouldn't permit him to carry her.

They reached her house, and he went in with her and pushed the door closed behind. He helped her take off her wrap, and removed his own jacket. He hung both in her coat closet.

He planned to get some ice, and wrap her ankle. He'd get her comfortable, resting on her couch, and maybe read to her a little. However, that didn't happen.

Either her ankle gave her an extra pain, or else she just wanted a hug. Suddenly she was in his arms, pressed a bit awkwardly against him.

Without planning it, or even quite realizing what was happening until it was in process, he bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth. As he lifted his face away from hers, he felt himself blushing deeply.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't do anything like that without asking first." But it had felt _so_ good to hold and kiss a woman again... Dear God, he hoped he wasn't using her! If he was, he'd never forgive himself...

"That was nice," she said, a little breathlessly. "You can do it again... if you want to, that is."

"I..." he began, and suddenly he was kissing her again - and holding her even more tightly. Why was he doing this? What was happening? Had he lost all of his ethics, just because it felt good to hold and kiss her?

And then he felt something else. A very tiny tickle appeared in his emotions: an oh-so-faint beginning. He recognized it. He wasn't sure if that made him feel more or less worried than previously. He made an effort to stop kissing her, but he failed.

The new emotional undercurrent meant he'd not sunk into depravity. That, at least, was a huge relief. Even as a friend, he'd not wanted to hurt her. Soon it would be much more important...

He finally managed to pull his mouth away from hers, and buried his face against her neck. "Do you suppose," he asked softly, "that you could possibly get used to the idea of being married to a guy like me, and having to put up with him being around all of the time?"

"No," she said firmly. "I could never get used to a guy _like_ you... however; I think I might get used to having _you_ around that much."

"I might hold you to that," he said, as if offering a warning. He raised his face and looked into her eyes. He felt and saw her smile, and he smiled in return... right before he bent his neck to kiss her again.

...

Nicholas heard music begin playing, and shook loose from his memories.

(You'll have to teach me that hand-holding technique sometime,) Alex teased in thought.

Nicholas had believed that an inquiry about how it might feel to be touched, and the response of holding her hand (with the reasons _why_ she asked carefully edited out), might help Alex. He'd thought it should be reasonably safe to share that moment. Apparently, he was mistaken... at least, about its being safe.

Nicholas mostly ignored Alex's mental message, but he felt one corner of his mouth quirk upward. So he bestowed a brief glare upon his unrepentant twin.

"I guess it's time," he said, loudly enough that their other brothers in the room could also hear it. He stood, carefully _not_ looking at Alex.

Alex was smiling. "By the way... Congratulations," he said.

"Thanks," Nicholas said. "Let's get out there and see my bride."

...

...

...

...

* _See_ "Vash's Long Road to Home" _chapter 1, if curious about memory-sharing techniques between plants as this author envisions it. The concept is inspired by scenes in the Trigun Maximum manga, where Chronica goes among the plants captured by Knives and investigates their memories._

...

_The wedding, or at least its reception, will be mentioned in "Those Who Overcome" ... I haven't fully written that chapter yet, but I'm working on it! I'll post it as soon as it's ready._


End file.
